Upon the Knife Edge
by Verecunda
Summary: A moment between Brutus and Cassius in the eye of the storm. Filler for Act 3, Scene 2. Brutus/Cassius.


Title: Upon the Knife Edge

Fandom: _Julius Caesar_ (Shakespeare)

Pairing: Brutus/Cassius

Rating: PG-13, just to be on the safe side.

Warnings: References to violence, and angst.

Word count: 2214

Disclaimer: Shakespeare and history can fight it out over ownership. I'm staying well out!

Summary: Brutus, Cassius, and the eye of the storm.

Comments: My first-ever Shakespeare fic. Eep! A bit of filler for Act 3, Scene 2, with some historical fudging to keep in with the play. And I've used the words "market-place" and "pulpit" rather than "Forum" and "Rostra", just to keep closer to the language of the text. Hope you enjoy!

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It is quiet when they reconvene at Brutus' house, a group of bloodstained figures standing in the empty atrium. All is silent around them; the slaves, so adept at sensing the moods of their masters, have doubtless retreated to the rear of the house. Cassius, taking command for now, seeks out the boy Lucius, who tells him that Portia has taken to her bed after fainting. This disturbs him, though he cannot say why. Brutus will have to be told, but there are also other matters at hand. Cassius managed to placate his audience for the time being, but he must know how well Brutus swayed his. The success of their enterprise depends on him.

The blood has dried on Cassius' hands, more brown now than red. It clings to his skin, reminding him of the heat as he bathed his hands in it. Caesar's blood. Caesar's life, no more now than a stain which may be washed away at pleasure.

No one speaks. The immensity of their deed has stunned them all, perhaps, or maybe it is simply the discomfiture of waiting. As if one ill-timed, ill-chosen word might tip the balance of the knife edge upon which they now stand.

At last, Brutus arrives. The groan of the heavy door closing behind him tolls throughout the atrium. For the first time, Cassius realises how quiet the street is outside. He remembers the people who fled before them as they walked in bloody triumph through the streets. Everyone will be inside, in fear. Anyone who dared go abroad would have gone to the market-place to hear the speakers. Rome is holding her breath.

So is he, he realises, as Brutus stands there in silence. He seems not to see them, any of them. His thoughts are elsewhere.

Finally Cassius can bear it no longer. "Were they satisfied?"

Brutus' eyes betray a mild surprise, as if he has just realised where he is. When he speaks, however, his voice is sure. "They were satisfied."

"And Antony?" Despite his relief at Brutus' words, he cannot rid himself of his misgivings. He cannot believe that Antony is so biddable. "What said Antony?"

"I did not hear him speak," replies Brutus. "I left him in the pulpit when my speech was done. He is with them even now."

Blood pounds in Cassius' ears, but the rest of him is numb with disbelief. Despite every one of his warnings, Brutus has left Antony with the plebes, alone. How can he not see the folly in that? It is like dropping a lit taper in a pool of oil: there can be only one outcome.

Not for the first time, Cassius thinks that if he did not love Brutus as he does, he might gladly choke him.

"Brother -" he begins, but the look that Brutus sends him makes him swallow his words.

"Antony knows his conditions. Besides, he is but one man alone. What can he do against all of us together?"

His guilelessness is maddening. Cassius opens his mouth to protest, but can find no words that Brutus has not already dismissed. And what good would it serve them now? What's done is done. Even as they stand here, Antony is in the market-place, speaking to the people. All he can do now is hope, hopelessly, that Brutus is right.

"Now must we wait," says Brutus, as if he has sensed something of Cassius' thoughts, though his voice is soft, as if counselling himself. "Wait for Antony to send us word."

The silence returns, more oppressive than before. Cassius sees the others exchange glances, looks of apprehension, but no one speaks, no one moves. The knife edge is more precarious than ever.

"Lucius." Brutus' voice is startling. The boy steps forward from the shadows where he has hovered, fearful of their bloody appearance. "Bring wine for us while we wait."

When Lucius is gone, Brutus turns to them. "Your pardon, gentlemen, I would be alone." And with nothing more said, he takes his leave through the tablinum. For a time, Cassius can only stare after him, hearing the others shifting restively. Then, because he has to know, and because he cannot hold himself away, he follows.

He finds Brutus beyond the tablinum, seated on a bench just inside the peristyle. He is staring out toward the orchard, but Cassius can already tell that he does not see it. There is a tension in his shoulders, and his back is too straight: the signs of some unrest within him. Signs imperceptible to anyone else, but which Cassius can read. He can read every one of Brutus' moods, even if their causes remain a mystery to him. Now, he sees at once that Brutus has withdrawn into himself, and Cassius already knows that his intrusion will not be welcome. So he simply stands there, watching Brutus from afar, because that is all he is allowed.

"You would speak with me, Cassius?"

Brutus' voice sends a jolt through him, and he is left with little choice but to step out from the shadows of the colonnade. Brutus turns on the bench to face him. His face is carefully impassive, but all Cassius can see are his eyes. They are darker than usual, and there is such a strange, terrible heaviness in their expression that all of Cassius' arguments wither into nothing. Here is something that Brutus has never before allowed him to see, and he finds himself quite helpless before it.

Brutus is waiting for him to speak, waiting for his arguments. Cassius does not know what to say, but opens his mouth to give them all the same. He is saved from finding words, however, by Lucius, who appears bearing a tray with two wine cups upon it, which they both refuse.

"Have the others been served?" asks Brutus.

"They have, my lord."

There is a pause, the boy loitering uncertainly, before Brutus asks, "How fares my wife, Lucius?"

Cassius catches his breath. Lucius hesitates, then replies: "My mistress took ill this morning, sir, but last I heard, she was recovering."

A shadow crosses Brutus' eyes, and Cassius wonders what passed between him and Portia before he left for the Capitol this morning.

"Good boy, go you and take word to my wife. Tell her I am well," he pauses, "and that it is done."

"Ay, my lord." Dutifully, the boy leaves. Cassius watches him go, waiting until the sound of his footsteps have faded before turning back to Brutus.

"You would give Portia a lie?" The words are sharper than he intended, and they escape him before he can prevent them. But he cannot help it. He wants Brutus to look at him.

Brutus stirs, and Cassius is taken aback by the weariness in the movement. "It is not a lie," he says. "I am well."

"I am not a blind man, Brutus," Cassius retorts. "I can see well enough that you are heavy."

Brutus looks at him then, but though his eyes meet Cassius', they do not see him. Cassius does not have to wonder what they do see. He knows, O gods, he knows. They are seeing, once again, the bloody, broken form at the foot of Pompey's statue, the grief and shock on Caesar's face. Blood soaks the front of Brutus' garments, dried dark into the wool. More blood than on anyone else. Cassius remembers the way Caesar clung to Brutus as he slumped against Pompey's basis, staring up at him, lips moving as he whispered to him. Cassius did not hear what he said, and he knows without asking that Brutus will not tell him.

Anger flashes through him, nearly blinding him with its force. Caesar is dead. Rome is purged. Why, then, not Brutus? Somewhere in the back of his mind, Cassius knows it is foolish, but he cares not. All he knows is that he does not want Brutus to mourn Caesar. He does not want Brutus even to think of Caesar.

"Hear me, Brutus." Cassius kneels, grasping Brutus' arms so that now he has no choice but to look at him. "Remember, dear brother, that we let Caesar bleed so that Rome might live. You yourself called his death a benefit, a favour given by his friends."

He hears the desperation rising in his voice as he echoes Brutus' earlier words back to him. It is the sort of self-deluding sophistry that makes up so much of Brutus' logic, but Cassius encouraged it then, as he encourages it now. He will suffer any amount of faulty logic, agree with any sort of sophistry, as long as it takes Brutus' thoughts away from Caesar.

"Why, so I did." A faint, reluctant smile touches Brutus' lips. His hands are clenched in his lap; he flexes them. The motion makes Cassius look down at them. Like his, Brutus' hands are crusted with dried blood, streaking his arms almost to his elbows.

Not all of the blood is Caesar's, however. Looking down, Cassius sees that there is a wound on the back of Brutus' hand: not deep, but it has bled freely. It must have been during Caesar's slaying. Another flare of anger rises within him. Whose foolishness was it put that cut there? Best for their sake that he never finds out.

He takes Brutus' hand in his, running his fingertips tentatively over the wound. Brutus shivers.

Immediately, Cassius stops. "Does it pain you?"

But Brutus shakes his head, and his hand remains in Cassius'. Beneath the incrustation of gore, his skin is warm. His fingers, long and blunt-tipped, clasp Cassius' own.

"Cassius..." Brutus says his name on a breath, and Cassius only realises how close they've drawn when he feels the warmth of it on his own lips.

His heart pounds, his blood racing fast and hot, as if he is in the grip of a fever. Can Brutus feel it, he wonders? Brutus' lips are parted as if he would speak, yet he says nothing, and Cassius can bear it no longer. There is no Caesar now to slip his poison between them, and he has wanted this too long. His hands tremble as he brings them up to frame Brutus' face. He takes just a moment to savour that sensation of their shared breath, a moment that nearly kills him; then, finally, he leans in and brushes his lips against Brutus'.

For a heartbeat, there is no more than that, simply their mouths pressed together as they hold themselves still. Then Brutus moves against him and tilts his head, and the kiss grows deeper, more desperate. Cassius does not even try to suppress the thrill of desire that burns through him. Now, in this moment, Caesar is dead and Brutus is in his arms, and there is nothing else.

Footsteps sound urgently, and they pull apart as if burned. Cassius is on his feet in an instant, the heat rushing to his face when he sees Casca. Casca pauses, but otherwise gives no sign that he might have seen them. It is only then that Cassius recovers himself enough to see that Casca is breathless, panicked.

"What is it?" he asks, frustration snapping in his voice.

"It is Antony," Casca gasps. "He has raised the plebes to mutiny! There is a rabble outside even now, crying for the blood of Brutus."

Cassius feels his own blood go cold, the fever that gripped him just a moment ago forgotten. Beside him, Brutus rises to his feet.

"What said he to them that inflamed them so?"

"What does it matter?" Cassius hears his voice crack. Now the pounding of his heart has nothing to do with desire. He knew, he _knew_ that Antony would never be their ally, for all his protestations of friendship. He must have been plotting this even as he took their hands in the Capitol.

He can hear people running within, voices shouting in the atrium. There is a banging at the door. And beyond that, he realises that Rome is no longer in hiding. Now she is out in force. Antony has roused the people whom they had thought to liberate against them in revenge. The silence is extinguished. The storm has broken over their heads.

"Antony has broken faith with us," says Brutus. He sounds bewildered, as if it truly never occurred to him. "Go, Casca, and tell the others that we must be gone, all of us, at once. There is no staying here. I'll rouse Portia; no one must stay. If the rabble find blood to spill, they will not care whose it is."

Shaking, Casca leaves. At first Brutus simply stands there, as if unable to comprehend what is happening. Then he turns, and their eyes meet, but Cassius can no longer read what is there.

"Come, Cassius. We must away."

Dimly, it occurs to him that he could refuse, that he could slay himself now, or go his own way and attempt to salvage something of their enterprise. But he feels the ghost of Brutus' lips against his own, and knows, beyond all reason, that he will never leave now. Wherever Brutus leads, he will follow, even if it destroys them both.


End file.
